


Welcome to the inner workings of my mind

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Collars, D/s play, M/M, Punishment, Rope Bondage, Sensory Deprivation, Spanking, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you understand why you’re being punished?” Harold asks, winding a piece of rope around the back of his hand like tying a noose, and John <i>shakes</i> with it, unable to look away.</p>
<p>“Yes,” John says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to the inner workings of my mind

**Author's Note:**

> During the May Prompt Fest, nightwolfslair asked for dark!Finch and "bondage/ punishment", I took some liberties with the prompt, but I hope you'll enjoy this all the same. 
> 
> People to thank:
> 
> Reed ( _slayingbells_ ), who listened to my extensive research on bondage and bdsm equipment at two in the morning, as well as Sky ( _talkingtothesky_ ), for lovely comments & encouragement. You guys are the best. 
> 
> Title from MSMR's "Hurricane".

„Did you manage to retrieve the flash drive, Mr. Reese?” Harold’s disembodied voice says in John’s ear.

  
John is standing on the pier, cradling the small silver USB stick in his palm.

  
There are three dead bodies in the building behind him. He didn’t waste more than one bullet on each one.

  
John is proud of his marksmanship, Harold says that he’s _an artist_ with a rifle.

  
“There are important documents on it, right?” John asks.

  
The little rectangle feels like it’s burning a hole into his palm.

  
“Yes, Mr. Reese, and I would be rather cross if the information was lost,” Harold says, the undercurrent of danger in his voice like a shock to John’s system.

  
He pockets the flash drive and takes a deep breath.

  
“Sorry, Harold, I couldn’t find it,” John says.

  
The nerve endings in his skin are tingling with anticipation.

  
“Come back immediately, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, clipped and sharp and _cold_.

  
John drops the key twice before he manages to get the car started.

 

\--

 

When John gets back to the apartment, the black velvet case is waiting for him on the table by the door. John strips down to his boxers and picks it up, running his hands over the case.

  
John opens it.

  
The collar inside is exquisite Italian leather in a lush dark green. It lies smoothly against the skin of his throat, the clasp closing at just the right point to feel safe and secure, but still loose enough not to choke him.

  
John kneels down on the polished hardwood floor and bends his head, waiting.

  
Harold will let him know when he’s ready for him.

 

\--

 

Harold has laid out the essentials: Eight meters of bondage rope, a pair of EMT scissors as a safety measure, a blindfold, a pair of leather gloves, a box of matches and a candle, lube and condoms.

  
He can hear the sound of the door and the sound of John’s belt as it hits the floor, the subtle sound of the velvet case opening.

  
Harold closes his eyes, tries to hear the clasp fastening tightly around John’s throat.

  
Harold snaps his fingers.

 

\--

 

The command is obvious, and John crawls across the loft, keeping his gaze _down, down, down_ , the floor cold and hard against his hands and knees.

  
He thinks about the flash drive in his pocket, hidden somewhere in the pile of clothes by the door, the thrill of keeping a secret from Harold a sweet, sweet high.

  
“Do you understand why you’re being punished?” Harold asks, winding a piece of rope around the back of his hand like tying a noose, and John _shakes_ with it, unable to look away.

  
“Yes,” John says.

  
Harold leans down to run his fingers over the soft leather of his collar, the tips of his fingers brushing over John’s throat.

  
“Lie down on the bed. On your stomach.”

  
John climbs onto the bed and lets himself sink down into the soft sheets, his naked backside completely exposed.

  
“Do you remember your safeword?” Harold asks.

  
His voice is so gentle that it makes John nearly dizzy with anticipation:

  
If Harold is sweet with him just before they go into a scene, it usually means that he has something special planned.

  
“Green is fine, Yellow is uncomfortable, Red is stop,” John says, instinctively.

  
He knows their code better than his own address, his own name. He almost never needs to use “Red”:

  
Harold has a way to push him to the edge and just beyond, but somehow, he never overestimates the limits of what John is able to take.

  
“Very good,” Harold says, a hand in John’s neck, and then there is the soft feeling of fabric against his temple, his face:

  
A blindfold.

  
Instantly, John’s world shrinks around him:

  
To the sound of Harold’s voice, the feeling of the smooth sheets against his skin, the smell of fabric softener, sweat, his own musky arousal.

  
John listens intently to the sound of Harold’s footsteps approaching, the rustling of the sheets.

  
Still, Harold’s hands on his hips are a surprise, tugging at his boxers and pulling them down.

  
John raises his hips to give him room to work, pushing himself up on his forearms, and then Harold’s hands are on him again.

  
John feels the contact of something slicker than human skin, cool and smooth over his back.

  
The soft leather of Harold’s gloves, John realizes, squirming a little because he can’t see, can only imagine the way Harold’s gloved hands look splayed against his skin, running down his spine.

  
“You’ve been very bad, John,” Harold says, voice low and intimate from somewhere in the darkness.

  
John draws in a desperate gulp of air at the first sweet-hot sting of pain on his lower back, Harold’s hand connecting with his skin with a noise that makes John bite down on the fabric where his face is resting against the sheets, muffling his moan.

  
John revels in the feeling of Harold spanking him with his open palm, almost a caress after what John has come to understand as pain:

What Harold does to him in this room barely registers as an ache compared to what he was used to during his day with the Agency, and the two things couldn’t be further apart from each other in his mind.

  
This is pleasure, a sweet hot thrill, but three letters and Harold would stop, remove the blindfold, cradle his hands in his hands and soothe him, and the knowledge of that - that John is choosing to expose himself, spread himself out for Harold, gives himself over completely, that’s the actual delight of their play.

  
Harold keeps up the spanking, precise bites of pain over John’s buttocks until his skin is burning with it, and John pushes his face against the sheets, his body hot and stinging and alive.

  
“I was considering to do that for an hour or so,” Harold says casually, like he is talking about needing to get milk. “But then I realized --“ Another flash of pain across John’s right buttock, sharp as a whip. “That you rather enjoy this sort of thing, don’t you, John?”

  
“Yes,” John says, shuddering with the sound, because god, he _does_.

  
He wonders if Harold smiles above him, that particular angle of his mouth that makes John want to press his fingers against his lips, lean in to kiss him.

  
“On your back,” Harold says and John turns around and regrets it immediately, his tenderized skin burning against the touch of the sheets.

  
John tries to relax into it, lets the sore feeling wash over him until he’s used to the burn.

  
He’s still lying in perfect darkness, and the change of position is disorienting, like the room is slightly tilted to one side.

  
John hears noises.

  
There are light sounds like leaves rustling, Harold’s uneven footsteps on the floor when he returns to the bed. If John tries really hard, he thinks he can hear the sound the fabric on Harold’s body makes as he moves, the slide of his thick wool jacket over his vest, the slide of his skin against his collar.

  
John flinches at the next touch. Harold’s hands are on his right wrist, no gloves this time, but John recognizes the feeling of rope against his skin, looping around his arms.

  
John tugs against the rope experimentally, and then Harold’s fingers are splayed against his throat, pressing down on his collar: A warning.

  
“Sorry,” John manages, unsure in how much trouble he is without Harold’s facial expression for reference. “Sir,” he adds, on a whim.

  
There is silence for a moment, then the hold on his collar eases.

  
John is not sure what made him say it, it’s not something that is part of their regular play sessions, but he just -- it felt _right_ , saying it.

  
“Don’t move until I tell you to. Don’t struggle, you’ll only pull the ropes tighter and hurt yourself. Understood?”

  
“Yes, Sir,” John says, all the tension draining out of his muscles.

  
He assumes that Harold ties the rope around the metal frame of the bed, secures it somewhere.

  
John can feel the rope coming around his wrists and upper arms in tight circles, bits of rope connecting the different parts like a spider web.

  
A line of rope comes to rest around his chest, little knots tied right over his nipples, rubbing against the sensitive skin with every alteration Harold makes, every time he pulls the whole construction tighter, knots the cord through a loop, ties a complicated knot against John’s skin.

  
John has his hands on both sides of his head like he is raising his palms to indicate that he is unarmed. He can feel the rope across his shoulders, underneath his neck, connecting the knotted handcuffs between his wrists.

  
“You’re allowed to move now,” Harold finally says.

  
John tries, but the rope is slung securely around his wrists, his elbows, and he finds that he can’t manage to raise his arms from the bed.

  
He doesn’t know how long Harold has been working on him, the blindfold making minutes seem like hours, everything concentrated in the focal point of his body.

  
Harold moves away from him, John can feel his weight disappearing from the mattress.

  
John listens intently, but there is not a single sound.

  
He sinks into the darkness, strangely peaceful even with his hands bound.

  
Then, after a moment: The sharp hiss of a match lighting on fire. _Oh._

  
John turns his head towards the source of the noise, but the blindfold lies tightly against his face, not a single ray of light finding a way in.

  
John tries to move again, but only succeeds in moving the rope across his chest, the knots pulled taught against his nipples, making him gasp.

  
“Impatient, are we?” Harold asks, from somewhere on John’s right, voice low and amused.

  
“Please,” John says.

  
He has been desperately hard since Harold put his hands on him, and by now he’s so keyed up that even the pressure of the ropes against his upper body lets little sparks explode beneath his skin, nerve endings humming with anticipation.

  
There are knots in all the right places, teasing him, pressing down against sensitive spots on his skin and driving him out of his mind, every breath, every expansion of his chest making him shiver all over.

  
John wonders how he must look to Harold, stretched out on his back, the rope tied in a complicated pattern around his arms and shoulders, stretching across his chest.

  
And oh, the _vulnerability_ of it:

  
Blindfolded, unable to move, his cock hard between his legs, begging to be touched.

  
The mattress dips on one side where Harold must have been sitting down, and John waits for the touch of his hands on him, a slap or a caress or both.

  
The next thing he feels is a sharp burn on his thigh, the heat spreading out in small circles on his skin like fingertips wandering over his hipbone.

  
John hisses at the first, exquisite lick of pain over his skin before it smoothes out into a little puddle of warmth, and he realizes that it’s liquid wax running over his skin, probably dripped from a candle in Harold’s hand.

  
“More,” John manages, his whole body trembling with the sting, and he realizes too late how he sounds.

  
It earns him a sharp tug at the collar, Harold’s voice close and dangerous in his ear.

  
“I don’t approve of bratty subs,” Harold says, working his fingers between the leather and John’s throat, tugging at the collar so John’s trachea feels tight for a second, his breath stuttering in his chest.

  
John whimpers.

  
“Hmm?” Harold says.

  
John licks his lips.

  
“Yes, Sir, I’m sorry, Sir,” John croaks.

  
Harold lets go of his collar, and John can feel Harold trailing his fingers down his chest and belly, all the way to the crease of his thigh.

  
For a moment, John isn’t sure what will happen next, but then he feels three perfect circles of pain spreading over his chest, the drip-drip-drip of the wax on his skin, and he shudders in delight.

  
Harold keeps going, moving from his chest to his stomach, the wax melting against his skin, and John lets himself get lost in the sensations, the sharp burn on the first moments and the warm feeling against his skin as the wax dries.

  
Finally, Harold gets up and moves around again, and John wonders what will be next, when he feels Harold’s fingers against the palm of his right hand.

  
“So you think you need punishment, hm?” Harold asks, and John squirms in his ropes at the sound of his voice.

  
_“Yes, Sir,”_ He breathes.

  
John can feel something else in his hand, a small, rectangular object, cool to the touch, and -- _Oh, Harold knew, of course he would._

  
“I think you did rather well today, John,” Harold says, and then his hands are on John’s thighs, running down all the way to his knees, and it’s all John can do not to thrust up against his touch, desperate for it.

“If anything, you deserve a treat.”

  
His fingertips come to rest against John’s cheek.

  
“I’m going to take off the blindfold, don’t be startled,” Harold says, and then the room explodes around John in brightness and color.

  
He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut against the light.

  
When John’s eyes have readjusted to daylight, he can see Harold sitting on the bed next to him.

  
He has taken off his jacket and vest and rolled his sleeves up over his elbows.

  
There is a small silver flash drive nestled against John’s right palm.

  
“How did you know?” John asks, wonderingly.

  
Harold smiles at him, his dom-persona sliding away from his features and revealing the softness of his eyes, the gentle way he runs his thumb over John’s hip.

  
“I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, leaning forward to undo one of the knots where the rope is slung around John’s arms.

  
“Please,” John says, and Harold’s clear blue eyes snap up to him, listening. “Could you - could you keep them on, for a while?”

  
Harold leans in to kiss him, one hand coming up to stroke John’s temple.

  
“Of course,” Harold says against his lips, and then he moves away, sitting down next to John’s knees on the edge of the bed.

  
“Harold,” John says, helplessly, and then his whole body shudders when Harold bends over him and puts his mouth on John’s cock.

  
It just takes a few moments with Harold sucking him off for John to go from feeling aroused to completely desperate.

  
_“Please, Harold, yes, please,”_ John mumbles, and Harold teases the head of John’s cock with his tongue until John is reduced to nonsense words and needy sounds, throwing his head back and moaning in pleasure.

  
“John?” Harold asks, waiting until John is focusing his glassy eyes on him. “I want you to come in my mouth,” he says, and John is glad for the restraints because he would certainly be tearing the expensive sheets right now if his hands were free.

  
John is panting, and when Harold swallows him down again, tongue flattened against John’s cock and hand curled around the base, stroking him firmly, he makes a sound low in his throat and comes, his orgasm finally crashing over him like a wave.

  
John doesn’t know how long he is lying there, blissed-out and satisfied, but when he opens his eyes again, Harold has untied the rope and is leaning over him, checking for sore spots.

  
John is amazed that he feels no pain, he had been pulling at the restraints pretty hard.

  
Harold must have tied him up in a way that didn’t only keep him down but that also wouldn’t hurt him, even if John struggled and fought.

  
“Harold,” John says groggily, touching the fabric of Harold’s pants to get his attention.

  
“Hello, John,” Harold says, leaning in to brush a kiss on his forehead. “Is there something that you need?”

  
“You didn’t get off,” John mumbles, already half asleep.

  
“That’s not quite accurate, John,” Harold says, humor in his voice, and when John opens his eyes again he can see the awkward way Harold is standing, sheepishly tugging at his pants.

  
_Oh._ The thought that Harold came in his pants just from watching John makes him shiver pleasantly again, and he curls up beneath the soft sheets, eyes closed and drifting.

  
Harold climbs into bed freshly showered, his hair still wet, and John crawls closer so he can push his nose into Harold’s neck, stroke his bare shoulders, wrap himself around him completely.

  
“If there is something that you need, you can simply ask me for it,” Harold says, running his fingers through John’s hair.

  
“’S more fun like this,” John mumbles, sleep-warm and comfortable against him, and Harold lets him have his way.

 

 

\-- fin


End file.
